Steely-Eyed Missile Man
2:
I'm not a Samuel L. Jackson fan.
I have nothing against the guy, mind you. It's just that he's built his entire damn career out of being a badass. A
vaguely camp badass, at that.
That's fine, y'know. That shit sells movies.
But me? I dunno. Maybe I'm a being an elitist prick, but I kinda want more from films than just two hours of a big black man
being aggressively awesome at people.
Of course, it's not like I've had the opportunity to catch Jackson's work in theaters. And it was pretty hard to get
DVD rental at my last couple places of residence.
Definitely no Netflix in the Zig. Hell, I was lucky just to get a flushing toilet.
All the same, I know who Samuel L. Jackson is, and I must admit at least passing familiarity with his body of work. It's
kinda required knowledge in my field.
Yeah, yeah, I know. Really good witty banter shouldn't rely on pop cultural references. You never know if your dancing
partner hails from Atlanta, Georgia...or Alpha Centauri. So being overly specific doesn't really pay off. It's no good if the other guys don't get
the joke.
Case in point:
"I have had it," I snarled, "with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!"
They didn't get it. They just stared at me blankly with cold reptilian eyes. A couple of them hissed in confusion. But it
wasn't exactly an overwhelming reception.
Pity, really.
Now, typically I'd follow that kind of puzzled look up with a crack to the effect of, I dunno - where have you been? Under a
rock all these years? Something like that, anyway. Except in this case, the answer would be yes.
One of them tried to bite me. His fangs sunk into my arm, but didn't break the skin. Even with the damned Zig restraint
collar still clamped around my neck, I could shrug off crap like that.
Didn't make it any less annoying, though.
I snapped my arm to the side, driving the little bastard into the wall - hard enough to crater the brick and mortar. The impact
stunned the snake-man. Or killed him. I couldn't tell. Either way, his jaw went slack, which was all I really cared about.
I pulled my limb free, just in time to swing round and intercept the next one as he jumped through the air. Scaly coils wrapped
round me, trying to gain purchase. To be fair, it was a credible effort. The creatures were strong, damned strong.
A normal guy caught in that grip would probably just die from asphyxiation. Or hell, broken bones. Maybe even pulped internal
organs.
Me, I'd probably have a couple bruises in the morning.
Powering out of the vice took a couple of seconds. Took about that long for me to reverse the hold and get my hands around my
attacker's neck.
Well, if a snake-man has a neck. Biology was never my favorite subject in high school, aside from the chapters on human
reproduction.
Still, I figured the bit between the creature's arms and head had to qualify. Made the right kind of noises, anyway. Always
a good sign.
I felt a little guilty. I mean, for all I knew, the snake guys were an endangered species or something. If so, I'd just set
Greenpeace conservation efforts back a hundred years.
But a man should have the right to walk down the street without having to worry about crazy slithering monsters. It's just
not socially acceptable to encounter snakeskin in a darkened alley.
Unless it's on a miniskirt and attached to a hooker. Then maybe.
Otherwise...no. Just no.
They told me Mercy was a rough town. Slums, sure. Nothing new there. But when most folks call a neighborhood a snakepit,
they're speaking figuratively.
Ha-ha. Thank you, Arachnos. I love your sense of humor. 'Love', in this case, defined as the sort of pure unadulterated
hatred and loathing found only in preschool playground courtship rituals. Complete with hair pulling and kicks to the groin.
I walked onward, climbing over what was left of a wrecked car. I felt like crap. And I probably looked it, too. Not that there
were any reflective surfaces around for me to check, not in a town decorated in the post-industrial deconstructionist aesthetic, with hints of neo-apocalyptic
architecture.
When a place has random fires instead of street lamps, you worry.
Warm welcome, huh?
Somewhere in the good part of town, there was some bright Arachnos officer responsible for my predicament. This whole shitfest
was a test. Weed out the weak from the strong, some crap like that.
When I found that guy, we'd have words.
Two words, actually, Four letters, three letters. Second word is 'you'.
Spelt in Morse Code. On his skull.
Any other employer would have, I dunno, interviews and stuff. But no, not Arachnos. They're better than that.
Obviously, the good gentlemen of Arachnos value practical industry experience more than paper qualifications. Unless it's a
diploma from the school of hard knocks.
I should have got the hint when the helicopter landed.
I was wondering why they called the airport 'Fort Darwin'.
Silly me.
When Arachnos broke us out of the Zig, they promised hot meals and a bunk. Sure.
But when we landed, the nice friendly spider-people told us that apparently our accommodation was all the way across town. No
problem, just a short leisurely walk from the drop-off point.
Right.
I talked to one of the locals hanging around the helipad. A taxi driver, or so he claimed. Except he couldn't get me to the
good part of town. Because he didn't actually have a car. No, what he actually had, when he lead me to the parking lot, was a knife.
Nothing drives home the horrible effects of poverty and inequality than something like that.
I mean, back in Paragon, if you're gonna rob somebody, you use a gun. Or some funky piece of alien technology. Or a magic
sword. You know. Something decent like that. But this guy, he had a knife.
For a moment, I was expecting it to shoot a laser beam or something. But no, he just sorta poked me. Or tried to, anyway. His
technique wasn't bad. He really leaned into the stab, used his body and everything. It's just...the blade couldn't really sink in.
I just stood there for a while. Didn't know what to say. It was kinda awkward.
Honestly. A knife.
But it's a third world country. Can't expect the same service standards.
Yeah, I know, I know. That's a terrible thing to say. We're supposed to be kind and understanding in this enlightened
new era.
Yet for some reason, I just can't muster up the ability to be charitable towards a place that looks and smells like a
shithole. An outdoor shithole. Without any kind of flushing mechanism.
Let's just say...my first impression of the Rogue Isles wasn't a great one.
You know how it is. Things always look better in the brochure. But when you actually get there, you find yourself wishing
you'd booked that trip to some other vacation spot. Like, I dunno, Disneyland, Baghdad. Or maybe Universal Studios, Pyongyang.
But the Rogue Isles? Pfft.
They're never gonna capture the tourist dollar like this.
Shame, really.
See, Mercy was a quaint little port town when the French colonized the archipelago. The French build cool stuff. They're
European and therefore more awesome with architecture. By definition. Old buildings are supposed to be impressive, right?
So the good folks of Arachnos are progressive and efficient gentlemen, right? As forward-looking urban planners, clearly
they've taken great pains to conserve the great historical buildings of Mercy, while simultaneously developing innovative new living spaces for future
generations.
Yeah. Right.
If you believe that, my left buttcheek is the Pope.
This place was a crappy little backwater even way back when. Time hasn't improved things. It's not exactly a finely aged
vintage. More like vinegar.
Some governments try to fight urban decay. Arachnos? Didn't even try. They just fenced up the good part of town. And I'm
not talking chain link and barbed wire here. I'm talking massive steel walls with honest-to-God turrets.
Mind you, it was a pretty damn impressive sight when I finally reached it.
The ground leading up to the gates was surprisingly clear of debris. Well, surprising at first. I wasn't sure why, right
until I saw the guns tracking my movements as I approached the gate. Then the reason became pretty obvious.
Guess that's one way to keep the riff-raff out. Seal off the slums and let 'em rot. Shoot anyone who tries a little
upward mobility.
Viva la Bourgeoisie.
There were armed guards at the gates. I walked right up to them.
I wasn't exactly trying to conceal my approach. I figured the grimy prison jumpsuit made it pretty obvious who and what I
was.
Namely, a guy in urgent need of a shower.
-- Acyl
2:
I'm not a Samuel L. Jackson fan.
I have nothing against the guy, mind you. It's just that he's built his entire damn career out of being a badass. A
vaguely camp badass, at that.
That's fine, y'know. That shit sells movies.
But me? I dunno. Maybe I'm a being an elitist prick, but I kinda want more from films than just two hours of a big black man
being aggressively awesome at people.
Of course, it's not like I've had the opportunity to catch Jackson's work in theaters. And it was pretty hard to get
DVD rental at my last couple places of residence.
Definitely no Netflix in the Zig. Hell, I was lucky just to get a flushing toilet.
All the same, I know who Samuel L. Jackson is, and I must admit at least passing familiarity with his body of work. It's
kinda required knowledge in my field.
Yeah, yeah, I know. Really good witty banter shouldn't rely on pop cultural references. You never know if your dancing
partner hails from Atlanta, Georgia...or Alpha Centauri. So being overly specific doesn't really pay off. It's no good if the other guys don't get
the joke.
Case in point:
"I have had it," I snarled, "with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!"
They didn't get it. They just stared at me blankly with cold reptilian eyes. A couple of them hissed in confusion. But it
wasn't exactly an overwhelming reception.
Pity, really.
Now, typically I'd follow that kind of puzzled look up with a crack to the effect of, I dunno - where have you been? Under a
rock all these years? Something like that, anyway. Except in this case, the answer would be yes.
One of them tried to bite me. His fangs sunk into my arm, but didn't break the skin. Even with the damned Zig restraint
collar still clamped around my neck, I could shrug off crap like that.
Didn't make it any less annoying, though.
I snapped my arm to the side, driving the little bastard into the wall - hard enough to crater the brick and mortar. The impact
stunned the snake-man. Or killed him. I couldn't tell. Either way, his jaw went slack, which was all I really cared about.
I pulled my limb free, just in time to swing round and intercept the next one as he jumped through the air. Scaly coils wrapped
round me, trying to gain purchase. To be fair, it was a credible effort. The creatures were strong, damned strong.
A normal guy caught in that grip would probably just die from asphyxiation. Or hell, broken bones. Maybe even pulped internal
organs.
Me, I'd probably have a couple bruises in the morning.
Powering out of the vice took a couple of seconds. Took about that long for me to reverse the hold and get my hands around my
attacker's neck.
Well, if a snake-man has a neck. Biology was never my favorite subject in high school, aside from the chapters on human
reproduction.
Still, I figured the bit between the creature's arms and head had to qualify. Made the right kind of noises, anyway. Always
a good sign.
I felt a little guilty. I mean, for all I knew, the snake guys were an endangered species or something. If so, I'd just set
Greenpeace conservation efforts back a hundred years.
But a man should have the right to walk down the street without having to worry about crazy slithering monsters. It's just
not socially acceptable to encounter snakeskin in a darkened alley.
Unless it's on a miniskirt and attached to a hooker. Then maybe.
Otherwise...no. Just no.
They told me Mercy was a rough town. Slums, sure. Nothing new there. But when most folks call a neighborhood a snakepit,
they're speaking figuratively.
Ha-ha. Thank you, Arachnos. I love your sense of humor. 'Love', in this case, defined as the sort of pure unadulterated
hatred and loathing found only in preschool playground courtship rituals. Complete with hair pulling and kicks to the groin.
I walked onward, climbing over what was left of a wrecked car. I felt like crap. And I probably looked it, too. Not that there
were any reflective surfaces around for me to check, not in a town decorated in the post-industrial deconstructionist aesthetic, with hints of neo-apocalyptic
architecture.
When a place has random fires instead of street lamps, you worry.
Warm welcome, huh?
Somewhere in the good part of town, there was some bright Arachnos officer responsible for my predicament. This whole shitfest
was a test. Weed out the weak from the strong, some crap like that.
When I found that guy, we'd have words.
Two words, actually, Four letters, three letters. Second word is 'you'.
Spelt in Morse Code. On his skull.
Any other employer would have, I dunno, interviews and stuff. But no, not Arachnos. They're better than that.
Obviously, the good gentlemen of Arachnos value practical industry experience more than paper qualifications. Unless it's a
diploma from the school of hard knocks.
I should have got the hint when the helicopter landed.
I was wondering why they called the airport 'Fort Darwin'.
Silly me.
When Arachnos broke us out of the Zig, they promised hot meals and a bunk. Sure.
But when we landed, the nice friendly spider-people told us that apparently our accommodation was all the way across town. No
problem, just a short leisurely walk from the drop-off point.
Right.
I talked to one of the locals hanging around the helipad. A taxi driver, or so he claimed. Except he couldn't get me to the
good part of town. Because he didn't actually have a car. No, what he actually had, when he lead me to the parking lot, was a knife.
Nothing drives home the horrible effects of poverty and inequality than something like that.
I mean, back in Paragon, if you're gonna rob somebody, you use a gun. Or some funky piece of alien technology. Or a magic
sword. You know. Something decent like that. But this guy, he had a knife.
For a moment, I was expecting it to shoot a laser beam or something. But no, he just sorta poked me. Or tried to, anyway. His
technique wasn't bad. He really leaned into the stab, used his body and everything. It's just...the blade couldn't really sink in.
I just stood there for a while. Didn't know what to say. It was kinda awkward.
Honestly. A knife.
But it's a third world country. Can't expect the same service standards.
Yeah, I know, I know. That's a terrible thing to say. We're supposed to be kind and understanding in this enlightened
new era.
Yet for some reason, I just can't muster up the ability to be charitable towards a place that looks and smells like a
shithole. An outdoor shithole. Without any kind of flushing mechanism.
Let's just say...my first impression of the Rogue Isles wasn't a great one.
You know how it is. Things always look better in the brochure. But when you actually get there, you find yourself wishing
you'd booked that trip to some other vacation spot. Like, I dunno, Disneyland, Baghdad. Or maybe Universal Studios, Pyongyang.
But the Rogue Isles? Pfft.
They're never gonna capture the tourist dollar like this.
Shame, really.
See, Mercy was a quaint little port town when the French colonized the archipelago. The French build cool stuff. They're
European and therefore more awesome with architecture. By definition. Old buildings are supposed to be impressive, right?
So the good folks of Arachnos are progressive and efficient gentlemen, right? As forward-looking urban planners, clearly
they've taken great pains to conserve the great historical buildings of Mercy, while simultaneously developing innovative new living spaces for future
generations.
Yeah. Right.
If you believe that, my left buttcheek is the Pope.
This place was a crappy little backwater even way back when. Time hasn't improved things. It's not exactly a finely aged
vintage. More like vinegar.
Some governments try to fight urban decay. Arachnos? Didn't even try. They just fenced up the good part of town. And I'm
not talking chain link and barbed wire here. I'm talking massive steel walls with honest-to-God turrets.
Mind you, it was a pretty damn impressive sight when I finally reached it.
The ground leading up to the gates was surprisingly clear of debris. Well, surprising at first. I wasn't sure why, right
until I saw the guns tracking my movements as I approached the gate. Then the reason became pretty obvious.
Guess that's one way to keep the riff-raff out. Seal off the slums and let 'em rot. Shoot anyone who tries a little
upward mobility.
Viva la Bourgeoisie.
There were armed guards at the gates. I walked right up to them.
I wasn't exactly trying to conceal my approach. I figured the grimy prison jumpsuit made it pretty obvious who and what I
was.
Namely, a guy in urgent need of a shower.
-- Acyl